


midnight in a perfect world

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, New Year's Eve, This is as close to fluff as I get, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a bit of introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 10:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17242997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: The chant from inside seems to filter through Jean-Éric’s strange detached sense of time and place. It’s already 2019 across half the world, he’d seen the fireworks all across the Southern Hemisphere on his phone earlier in the day. It makes him feel sad for a moment, the dying of the year, the best year he can remember having in a long time, if ever. He feels changed somehow, in more ways than just from winning the championship.





	midnight in a perfect world

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year! Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos throughout 2018. Here's a little romantic Jeandré to kick off 2019. <3
> 
> Obviously Jev is in Paris and André is in Monaco for new year but let's pretend they're both somewhere snowy together. 
> 
> Title from the DJ Shadow song of the same name.

Jean-Éric lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden balustrade and looking out over the sloping mountains. His hands shake with the cold, his fingertips a little numb from it. The soft glass beads of the bracelet that had been a Christmas gift from André are chill against the delicate bones of his wrist and he can’t help but run his fingers over them, a habit newly formed but familiar already. His mind, perhaps unhelpfully, wanders. Jean-Eric knows he has a proclivity for introspection and that it maybe isn’t always the best thing for him, but there’s something about this time of year that warrants a certain amount of reflection and he can’t stop himself from slipping into it now, in less of a party mood than he thought he would be. A glance at his watch reveals there’s only half an hour to go, but he finds himself lingering, hitting the button for the heater and sinking down onto one of the huge wicker sofas in the glow of the light, pulling a blanket over himself and finishing his extremely chilled glass of champagne. There’s an ache in his thighs from the skiing of the last few days, the feeling mostly pleasurable.

He feels good, he decides. Hungry for more as always, more victories, more experiences; yet he’s contented too in a way he can’t recall ever feeling before in his whole life. Everything has clicked into place and he’s almost let go of the fear that it’s all going to shatter at any moment. If it did, he thinks he might just be strong enough to get through it this time, on the cusp of the last year of his twenties and with a championship title to his name, battles he can win and where the odds aren’t stacked against him. A teammate who he trusts to push him all the way on track but who wouldn’t use anything that happens off it as a weapon with which to take him down.

It’s probably just the alcohol making him feel sentimental, keeping him warm even in the sub-zero temperatures of Chamonix in December.  _ André _ , he thinks, something even softer than the clichéd butterflies swirling around in the pit of his stomach mixing with the yearning he’s been unable to subdue for the most part of a year now. André on the podium beside him, André asleep next to him in the back of the garage on the roll mat, soft flutter of his eyelashes as he dreams. André in his life as if he’s been there forever.

The sliding door opens, bringing with it a sudden swell of heat from inside the chalet bar.

“You’re missing all the fun,” The object of Jev’s thoughts shakes his head incredulously, sinking down onto the sofa beside Jean-Éric, reaching behind his head to press the button on the heater even though it’s already on. Whether he was actually looking for Jean-Éric to drag him back into  _ all the fun _ is debatable, given how he’s brought an almost full bottle of champagne out onto the deck with him and a pair of glasses, filling them up with an expert touch before tugging some of the blanket over so it covers him too. Jean-Éric giggles, extricating his hand from beneath the soft fleece and taking the flute that André proffers.

“Santé,” he toasts, clinking his glass against André’s, his teammate holding his gaze as they take a sip. Tradition, obviously, Jev tells himself. Yet André keeps looking at him even when Jean-Éric glances away, his face growing flushed from more than just the rays of heat streaming down on them.

“If it’s so much fun in there, why did you come out here?” Jean-Éric nudges André with his elbow, laughing at the resulting jab that earns him.

“Your girlfriend was looking for you,” André replies with a quirk of his eyebrow. “I said I'd track you down.”

Jev thinks for a moment and then starts laughing, nuzzling his face against André’s shoulder. “She’s not my girlfriend, she’s just a good friend.”

André snorts, knocking back half his champagne and filling it up again before slouching back and putting his feet up on the low glass table, crossed at the ankles. The motion pulls the blanket away from Jean-Éric a little and he yanks it back, the tussle familiar, charged at the fringes just like it’s always been.

“Just a good friend who models underwear, who you sometimes fuck,” André sighs dramatically, drawing out the syllables. He reaches for the heater switch again when it really does go off, leaving his hand draped around Jean-Éric’s shoulder, as easy and comfortable as it always is between them.

“And this coming from the playboy of WEC. You jealous, André?”

André is silent for long enough that Jean-Éric convinces himself he’s pushed it too far, teeth worrying at his lip and tearing at a bit of skin cracked from the cold.

“You shouldn’t believe every rumour you hear,” the Belgian says finally.  Jean-Éric looks up at him, studying his face carefully. The sudden apparent sincerity is a shock among the banter, but then André does that kind of thing, truth and honesty scattered where only the keenest observer might find it and pull him up on it. Jean-Éric wonders if he’s being given an invitation here, tries to think how best to phrase it. Yet André is seemingly drunk enough to refrain from letting it lie. “What would you think if I was jealous?” 

Jean-Eric bites at the inside of his cheek, feeling the scrutiny of André’s eyes on him, the sideways glance that always makes him feel so exposed. He leans in to André’s touch, looking out over the snow-capped mountains at the rows of gondolas shifting in the breeze, the chair-lift out of action for the evening. Jev doesn’t know what he’d think, the idea scarcely believable outside the realms of thoughts he prefers not to acknowledge. He tries to think of a suitably witty response but then André is burying his face against his shoulder in laughter, the moment breaking before it’s really formed.

“You’re such a muppet,” Jev teases, the endearment stolen from James having easily become part of his vocabulary; another way to bind himself to them, their past in Tokyo and the ease of their relationship.

André straightens up, adjusting the blanket again and checking the time on his phone, a lilting tension in the air. “Doesn’t it ever get boring?” he asks with a hint of reluctance that makes Jev think he isn’t joking this time. “A different model every few months? You never want something, I don’t know, real, someone who’s not just with you for awards nights and publicity?”

Jev flinches, opening his mouth to say it isn’t like that, but honestly it is and he’s okay with that. It makes sense for him, nothing too complicated or emotional; someone to date and to fuck but nothing more. His life is compartmentalised now in a way it once wasn’t; it works, it’s partly how he maintained enough focus to become champion. It works enough that he’s never stopped to dissect whether he actually likes it.

“Real is complicated, no?” Jev reaches for the bottle, topping himself up and then doing the same for André, their fingers brushing when Jev grips the stem of the glass to steady it as he pours.

“It can be. Complicated doesn’t have to be a negative thing.”

“You’re not exactly the master of commitment,” Jev wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Hey, I have Max. He loves me unconditionally.” 

Jev has to swallow some more champagne to stop himself from saying  _ I can see why. _ “I have Cheetah too. I’m a cat parent now.” 

André laughs, that almost like childlike giggle he has that always seems at odds with the serious silences Jev so often sees him lapse into when he’s caught up in a memory. “I think half your fans expected you to call her Jeandré.”

“Yeah, there were a few comments.” The champagne has definitely gone to Jev’s head by now, his thoughts running away from himself. “What about that anyway, when are you going to marry me then, André?” It doesn’t come out in the jokey way he’d intended, the frozen air catching in his throat as the arm that André has around him tenses noticeably. André removes it, pushing aside the blanket and getting up, moving to look out over the view, snow just beginning to fall again. Jean-Éric stares at his back, admiring the fit of his shirt, the curve of his arse. 

“André?” 

“I was waiting to figure out if you meant any of it,” André turns around, leaning against the railing and cutting off whatever joke Jean-Éric was going to make. 

“Meant what?” Jev asks, dumbly, trying to get his head around whether they’re having a conversation about what he thinks they’re having a conversation about, or not. André seems far away for a moment, he looks away from Jev, through the sliding doors at the merriment going on inside. “It’s almost midnight,” André says, “we should head inside.” 

Jev shivers as he stands up, moving away from the heater and closer to André, hit with a blast of chill wind that he feels sharply in the back of his throat. The renewed flurries are drifting onto the porch at an angle, soft flakes sticking to André’s hair, decorating him more prettily than any ornament on any tree. Jev follows his line of sight. Inside everyone is dancing, people he knows and a few he doesn’t. All decked out in designer suits and dresses, the young and beautiful, the privileged. Of everyone in any room he’s been in for the last year it is André who has always stood out to him, André who has caught his eye across a sea of faces he could forget. Tonight is no different. Jev holds his breath for a moment, trying not to panic when André starts walking towards the door. 

“Wait, André, meant what?” Jev takes his hand, André letting himself be led back to the sofa away from any prying eyes. They resume their positions, Jev shivering a little, running his fingers over his head, unused to the lack of hair to protect him from the elements. 

“I should’ve bought you a hat for Christmas,” André jokes, touching the soft fuzz of Jev’s shaved head before pressing his lips there, just above Jev’s ear, sagging against him. Jean-Éric has to suppress a whimper at the contact. 

“I like this just fine,” he replies, holding up his arm to show André where the bracelet sits beside the gold Cartier band that he never removes. 

“I found it in a place in Gordes, made me think of you.”

Jev closes his eyes, taking a deep breath that feels like ice in his throat, hard to breathe. 

_ Ten...Nine...Eight _

The chant from inside seems to filter through Jean-Éric’s strange detached sense of time and place. It’s already 2019 across half the world, he’d seen the fireworks all across the Southern Hemisphere on his phone earlier in the day. It makes him feel sad for a moment, the dying of the year, the best year he can remember having in a long time, if ever. He feels changed somehow, in more ways than just from winning the championship. 

_ Seven… _

“I meant it,” Jev whispers. “All of it. So many times I wanted to say something and I didn’t know if you wanted me to, if it was better not to.”

_ Six...Five... _

André’s expression when Jev turns to him is unguarded, serious. Jean-Éric touches him, cupping André’s face, puzzled for a second when he flinches. 

“Cold hands.” 

Jev smiles, his thumbs stroking the defined lines of André’s cheekbones. 

“I wanted you to.” André looks down almost shyly. “Say something, I mean.” 

“Okay.” Jev runs his thumb over André’s lips, pausing just for a second, filing away the final moments of the year, moments to remember. 

The countdown reaches its end as Jev leans in, André meeting him halfway. Fireworks light the sky in the far distance and cheers ring out from the party inside, shouts of  _ bonne année _ . André kisses with a restrained intensity, like he’s trying to hold himself back, like he needs Jean-Éric more desperately than the oxygen that is so thin this close to the clouds. Jean-Éric feels lightheaded, losing himself easily in André, the taste of champagne and faint hint of tobacco on his tongue. When they part for breath - for clinking champagne flutes together,  _ santé  _ whispered on the wind and  _ akemashite omedetu,  _ André teaches him - it’s a new year, and André’s smile reaches his eyes so beautifully that Jean-Éric really has no choice but to kiss him again.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
